


Ineffable Whump

by Pearl09



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arachnophobia, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Blood, Bodyswap, Canon Compliant, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, I promise it won't sneak up on you, Kinda, M/M, Mid-Canon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, Torture, Trojan War, Violence, Whump, Whumptober 2019, angels have gold blood, that chapter is tagged, this month is gonna hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-10 14:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 13,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20853158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearl09/pseuds/Pearl09
Summary: A collection of the 2019 whumptober fics, featuring the ineffable husbands!





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how many prompts I'm actually going to do, but I'll try to do as much as I can! Thanks for reading!

Crowley’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, clenched hard enough that he was drawing blood. The cuts on his palms would be hard to hide from Aziraphale, but he’ll have to do it anyway.

They stopped Armageddon. They tricked Heaven and Hell. He should be happy. They had a nice lunch at the Ritz, and he couldn’t turn down Aziraphale’s suggestion to go back to the bookshop afterward, because he didn’t want Aziraphale to think anything was wrong. Everything else was going perfectly, so why ruin it?

The bookshop had burned down. Aziraphale had been missing, presumed dead. Crowley had been back earlier, yes, but he held it together to act the part, being in Aziraphale’s body. Now, there’s nothing left for him to hide behind, except this stack of books. He still remembers the charred smell filling his nose; the taste of smoke and ash on his tongue. The charred remains of Aziraphale’s precious books. If he’s not careful, he still sees flashes of the suffocating fire out of the corner of his eyes.

Aziraphale would always change his answer if you asked him what his favorite books were. He was proud of the collection of prophecies, yes, but they weren’t his favorite. Sometimes it was Shakespeare. Sometimes it was Oscar Wilde. Sometimes it was an obscure writer that never became popular, making the book rare. But Crowley knew his true favorites. The ones in front of him now, displayed proudly for everyone to see. The books Crowley has gifted him through the years.

He looks around quickly for Aziraphale, and, not seeing him, he carefully extracts his hand from his pocket. His hand trembles as he reaches out to gently run his fingers along each spine, feeling the bumps and wrinkles from use, trying to convince himself it’s real; it’s not just a dream.

His hand shakes more violently as he gently presses his fingers into the cover of the most important book – the one he used to confess his love to Aziraphale all those years ago. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down, traitorous tears leaking from under his eyelids.

“Tea is ready, my dear,” Aziraphale calls from the backroom, searching for Crowley.

“I’ll be right there,” he calls out, willing his voice to sound normal. His hand trembles over the book for a few more seconds before he wipes his tears away, stuffing his hand back in his pocket before walking off to join Aziraphale.


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's day two and the whump doesn't get any better! I'm gonna warn you now, most of these will be Crowley whump.

A loud bang echoes outside, shaking the walls of the bookshop. It’s followed by smaller, but no less powerful explosions in a matter of a few seconds.

Images flash before Crowley’s eyes. A steering wheel jerking under his hand. Aziraphale in the seat next to him, clutching a bag and holding onto the door for dear life. It wasn’t entirely his fault, but he blames himself anyway. He burrows his face further into Aziraphale’s soft side, and the blanket slips from his shoulders.

Aziraphale gently pulls the blanket back up, trapped in Crowley’s vice-like grip. He doesn’t mind, though. He just resumes combing through Crowley’s hair with his fingers, a gentle reminder that he’s still here. Occasionally he’ll mutter something to try and help Crowley. “I’m right here. It’s just fireworks. We’re safe here.”

Another explosion sends chills down Crowley’s spine. All the lights are on in the bookshop so that Crowley doesn’t have to see the flashing lights too.

They had snuck up on him today. For big holidays, when he knew they were going to be using fireworks, he could spend time mentally preparing himself, so when the fireworks did start, he might actually be able to watch them. As long as he hadn’t forgotten to wear noise-canceling headphones as it blasted Queen, of course. If he could tell it was going to be a bad day, he’d slip out of the city for a few hours instead and drive around the countryside, returning when the show is over. He doesn’t even know why there are fireworks today. It seems like some dumb excuse to spend money.

The next explosion makes him feel the jerk of the car as he watches debris fly into the street. Of course, now would be the time he didn’t have the headphones. He doesn’t think they would work anyway.

He had used a demonic intervention to throw the blitz off-course in World War II. He did it to save Aziraphale from his idiocy with the Nazis. Those bombs killed lots of innocent and unprepared humans. It killed Nazis too, sure, but not enough to outweigh the others. He almost killed Aziraphale and himself as well – well, discorporated them. If Aziraphale hadn’t understood his straightforward words, they’d be gone. And the drive home was littered with bombs and explosions too. He caused a lot of damage that night just to be all heroic and run into a church. His feet ache with the reminder.

Aziraphale’s finger brushing his ear pulls him out of his thoughts, and a soft kiss on his head tickles his scalp. “I’m right here,” Aziraphale gently reminds him. “I’m not going anywhere.”


	3. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I accidentally combine more than one prompt? Yeah basically. Does that mean I'm not going to do the other prompt? Absolutely not you all just get to <s>suffer</s> read it twice :)

Crowley was having a nice day. He spent some time causing traffic jams, influencing a few arguments, and spewing general chaos. A sudden burst of power almost knocks him into the pond as he was gluing coins to the ground again. When he regains his footing, he rushes to the one thing he wants to be safe. Aziraphale.

Power oozes from the bookshop as he haphazardly parks the Bentley out front, worry etching lines across his face. The doors open before him as he calls out, “Aziraphale!”

“Gone…” Aziraphale mutters from the backroom, and Crowley hears a thud.

“Angel what–” he stops short upon entering the backroom, eyes growing wide. The room is a mess, as if a brief battle happened, but he can barely focus on that as Aziraphale kneels on the floor, clutching a bleeding wound in his abdomen. 

“Safe…” 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley falls to Aziraphale’s side, reaching an arm around his back to hold him and briefly touching the wound with the other. His hand is bloody when he pulls it away.

“Not here…” 

“Angel, you need to help me if I’m going to help you. Please, you’re bleeding. I can’t lose you, not after everything we’ve been through.”

“Smited… demons…”

Crowley curses under his breath as he looks around and sees the small traces of demons left in the room that he hadn't noticed previously. They must have tried to come for him, and Aziraphale put up a fight. The blast of power was probably Aziraphale getting rid of them. He remembers suddenly what Aziraphale once said to him. About how he’s never killed anyone. Combine that with the wound... his delirious state suddenly makes sense now.

He manages to get the delirious Aziraphale at a better angle to see the wound, watching as the color continues to drain from his face slowly. He focuses in on it, and taking a deep breath, he brings his wrist up.

_Snap._

But nothing happens.

“We’re…” he starts coughing before he can finish that thought, doubling over in pain.

That can't be right.

_Snap._

_Snap._

_Snap._

The wound won’t heal. And in Aziraphale’s current state, helping him will be next to impossible. Hell must have used a weapon that doesn’t heal with a miracle. Aziraphale still doesn’t even know Crowley is here.

In a split-second decision, going against everything he thinks he should do to help, Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s face and lifts it so he can look in his eyes. “Angel–”

“Cr… Crowley?” Aziraphale interrupts, a weak smile spreading across his face. “You – you’re here…”

“Yes, yes I am, angel.” He presses their foreheads together, trying to hold back the tears welling in his eyes. “I love you, angel. You can yell at me for this later.” He then does the one thing he can think of to help Aziraphale. He finishes connecting their faces by pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss. A pain in Crowley’s abdomen slowly forms and starts to spread, causing him to wince out of the kiss and hold his side; the rip through the brown and white clothes. Aziraphale stares at him in horror through yellow slitted eyes.

“Dear…”

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say, angel,” Crowley interrupts through gritted teeth, putting as much pressure on the wound as he can. “You just – ugh – killed those demons, I’m not letting you – ah – deal with this anymore. Come on, let’s get you – _fuck_ – resting before I go dress this wound.”

He gets to his feet, his legs barely able to hold his weight as he wobbles around, but he forgoes the wound to help Aziraphale up, laying him out on the couch and covering him with a blanket. 

He presses his hands back to the wound as his vision starts to blur, stumbling to the first aid kit Aziraphale keeps in case a human gets injured. The cream jacket he’s wearing has forgotten its original color in favor of red, so he strips it away, and his fingers fumble for the vest buttons to take it off as well. 

It’s a shoddy fix for the wound, but his breathing feels less difficult now that the bleeding is under control. He wraps the wound carefully before stumbling back over to Aziraphale, who looks to be asleep already. Crowley doesn’t remember the couch being this big, but he’s grateful for it as he lays himself down next to Aziraphale, succumbing to sleep almost as soon as his head hits the cushion.


	4. Human Shield

They had been preparing for Heaven and Hell to fight back against them, but they weren’t ready for the small rebellion of demons to attack. Without a leader, they were somewhat disorganized, but they still managed to catch Crowley and Aziraphale unawares.

Aziraphale smote a few of them. It was dangerous work, for one wrong strike could hit Crowley instead. He managed, though, and continues to run with Crowley through the streets of London in search of the Bentley.

“Damn it!” Crowley yells, cutting through an alley after Aziraphale smites another demon. He clutches the gun in his hand, unused so far, but full of demon-killing ammunition. “Why did I have to drive home drunk last night! Leaving the car by itself somewhere in London right when we need it most.”

Aziraphale huffs behind him, quickly losing the energy to continue. “Just focus on finding it! We need to get to Adam!”

Crowley nods and runs out into the street, glancing up and down to see if this was where he left it. He smiles as he spots the tartan bike rack, but his head whips around as Aziraphale lets out a startled scream from behind him.

“Stay back!” One of the demons says, holding Aziraphale in a tight grip in front of him.

“You–”

“I said stay back!” He holds a sword to Aziraphale’s neck threateningly. “I will kill him if you take another step forward.”

Crowley grits his teeth, sneering menacingly. “What do you want?”

“You two must be very powerful to survive Holy Water and Hellfire, huh? We want to know how to do that too.”

“Why do you think we’d tell you something like that?”

“I’m not letting him go until you do!”

Crowley clenches his fist and shakily brings the gun up, aiming it for the pair.

“You wouldn’t kill your angel just to get to me,” the demon sneers, adjusting his grip on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale locks eyes with Crowley. “Don’t listen to him. Do it.”

“Angel–”

“I love you, Crowley. It’s okay. I forgive you.” Tears threaten to spill out of his eyes, but they’ve already started falling in Crowley’s. 

“I love you too, angel. Don’t forget that.” Taking a deep breath, he steadies his hand, squeezing the trigger with his index finger.

A stream of water leaves the gun, splattering harmlessly against Aziraphale. A few drops of the Holy Water manage to hit the demon, and he screams in horror as he melts into nothing. His sword clatters to the ground.

Crowley laughs as he twirls the bright green plastic around in his hand, wiping his face off with his other. “I told you they’re all idiots.”

Aziraphale wipes the fake tears from his eyes and starts to wipe the demon remnants off of his jacket. “Oh, go ahead and laugh. I only wish I would have known today was going to be like this, or I would have worn something else. This jacket is all wet now!”

“Hey, you already said you forgive me, so don’t get mad at me.”

“I know, dear. It’s not you that I’m mad at. It’s these insufferable demons. Ruining a perfectly good jacket.” He stoops down and picks up the sword the demon dropped, testing its weight in his hand. “It did give me this, however. It will be much easier to get rid of them with this than smiting them.”

Crowley’s phone buzzes in his pocket, so he fishes it out, checking his texts. “The troops are ready; they just need the ammunition. Adam’s trying to keep Dog from drinking the water. All that's left is for you to bless it.”

Aziraphale nods, gesturing to the Bentley. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I _tried_ okay but this prompt didn't want to go full-on whump


	5. Gunpoint

It was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it move. One second, Aziraphale was gently telling the mob members to leave the shop because he isn't going to leave. The next, he’s staring down multiple gun barrels with no way to defend himself.

“Oh, really,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I thought I told you to leave?”

“The boss is tired of you. All our members that come here to suggest that you hand this property over always quit not long after, saying they’d rather go into a different job to help the city. That they’ve seen the error of their ways and have reformed. He said if you didn’t take the money today, that there are other ways to get rid of you.”

“Oh yes, because I’m sure a measly bookshop owner such as me would have been the cause of that.” He, of course, was the reason. Whenever the mob came over, he would plant the idea in their minds that they should do something better with their lives. It was entirely their decision, though.

“It doesn’t make sense to us either, but you’re the only connection point between them all.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, readying himself to use a rather large miracle to get rid of the men and their guns, but he forgot about two things. The first thing would be that the blinds around the shop are still open. The second would be that he had a lunch date planned for today.

The bookshop doors slam open as Crowley storms in, furious to see Aziraphale threatened by humans, of all people. A startled gunshot fades into the background as Crowley deals with them, his demonic energy oozing out into every nook and cranny of the shop until the humans have all run away with their metaphorical tails between their legs. 

“Well, that was fun,” he says as the doors close behind the last man, calming down as he adjusts his collar. “Why were they even here, angel?” He looks over to the last place he had seen Aziraphale, eyebrows furrowing as he realizes he disappeared somewhere in his rage-filled haze. “Angel?”

A groan emits from the floor. “Really, my dear, I could have handled them. That wasn’t necessary.”

Aziraphale sits up, having stumbled backward and fallen over a stack of books. Crowley rushes to his side, noticing the red blooming across the top of his shoulder.

“Bloody He – Hea – Earth, you were shot!” He presses his hand to the wound to slow the bleeding, and Aziraphale winces.

“Just a scratch. ‘M fine. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t scared them with the doors.”

“I just rescued you from them! Don’t shift the blame onto me!”

Aziraphale places his hand on top of Crowley’s, adding to the pressure on his shoulder. “I’ve handled ‘em in the past. Was about to now. Then you startled ‘em.”

Crowley sighs and grits his teeth. “Fine, blame me. But rest assured, they won’t be bothering you anymore. Any of them. I’ll be sure of it.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He pats Crowley’s hand. “I think the bleedin’s slowed enough.”

“Right. I’ll handle it then.” He focuses his energy into his hand, and a warm feeling spreads from Aziraphale’s shoulder through the rest of his body as the wound closes itself. He pulls his hand away, and Aziraphale rolls his shoulder to test it. “Better?”

He nods. “And you fixed the jacket too!”

“I wouldn’t have heard the end of it if I didn’t,” he mutters. Then, standing, he offers Aziraphale his hand. “How about that lunch date?”

“The Ritz has a remarkable pudding selection this time of day,” Aziraphale answers, letting Crowley help him off the ground as they leave the shop together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this one more whumpier than the last, and it got there a little! Don't worry, if tomorrow goes as planned, it will be _much_ worse


	6. Dragged Away

Aziraphale kneels on the ground, tear marks staining his cheeks as he stares at the charred mark on the ground before him. The day had started so nice, too.

He and Crowley met early that morning in the park, having a lovely day planned out. First, they stood by the pond and fed the ducks upon Aziraphale’s insistence. When he found out that bread was actually bad for ducks, and thought back to how many times he has fed them bread, he felt it was his duty to make things right. Crowley pointed out that feeding them the right food now wasn’t going to change feeding them bread in the past, but Aziraphale didn’t quite understand, so Crowley let it go. 

Once they had emptied their bag of mixed vegetables and Aziraphale saw that it was properly disposed of, they went for a nice walk. This was Crowley’s suggestion because he wanted to see if anyone in the park had fallen for his pranks. Spreading chaos might not be necessary for him anymore, but it was still enjoyable. Even Aziraphale had a few chuckles as Crowley fell for some of the pranks.

They had planned a picnic for after that, but now the food lay scattered on the ground around them, the shattered wine bottle giving the grass its first taste of alcohol, and the food slowly becoming victims to the bugs and animals in the area. 

Hell came back for them.

It was hard to tell who exactly they had tried to grab, to be honest, for they caused quite the scuffle when the demons arrived. In the end, it was Crowley they had managed to drag away, taking him back to Hell and leaving behind only the scorch mark on the sidewalk. Now, he could be suffering unimaginable tortures, or, even worse – they might be trying to kill him again. Permanently.

Aziraphale’s expression grows hard. He steels himself and stands, hands clenched tightly as he makes up his mind. If Hell wanted a fight, they’d get one. He was going to do whatever he needed to do to get Crowley back.

The bookshop is his first stop. It might seem unnecessary, but he can’t go unarmed. Crowley isn’t the only one hiding things in secret compartments behind paintings. It had to be hidden - he couldn’t risk anyone getting their hands on it. He pries the frame from the wall, revealing the gleaming sword he’s kept secret for all these years. He gave away his flaming sword, yes, but he was tasked with guarding the gate of Eden; protecting the oasis and all those living inside. God made sure he had more than one weapon on hand.

Pulling it out, he tests its weight, getting a feel for its familiar grip in his hand. He gives it a few test swings to make sure it’s still okay before replacing the picture on the wall. If the bookshop were left in disarray when Crowley returns, he’d fret over Aziraphale, which is definitely not something he wants. What he does want, however, is to get Crowley back, or die trying. And if he’s going to go, he may as well go with style.

He uses the front door. It would be hard to disguise his angelic presence once he got down there, so he might as well face the problem head-on. The escalator carries the scent of smoke and sulfur as it takes him down, reminding him that Hell is a dangerous place lurking behind the facade of a dingy office basement.

There’s an ethereal glow around him as he encounters the first few demons, his sword hanging casually at his side, but still pointed up enough to be threatening. “Hello,” he greets with a smile he’s picked up from Crowley – more threatening than anything. “I’m looking for Crowley. Have you seen him?”

The demons were wise enough to point him in the right direction and leave him well enough alone. Lower demons would never stand a chance against him. The convoluting hallways eventually lead to a shriek ringing in Aziraphale’s ears; one that is unmistakably familiar and one he never wants to hear again.

The door is cracked open, allowing him easy access as he bursts through, temporarily blinding the demons inside as he assesses the situation.

“Angel?” Crowley croaks, tears running down his face and deep, black blood running down his arms from slashes near the top. His wrists are rubbed raw from trying to get free of the ropes tying him to the chair.

Aziraphale’s vision goes red. He vaguely remembers the movements, the thrusts and jabs, the parries, the dodging to and fro, but he doesn’t remember much else. All he knows is there had been several demons in the room when he first entered, a few he vaguely recognized, and the next thing, he was huffing and panting, and the only demon with him was Crowley.

He drops the sword and quickly falls to Crowley’s side, untying the ropes binding him to the chair.

“Angel,” he croaks again, trying to stand but falling into Aziraphale’s shoulder as he stands as well. Aziraphale catches him, holding him steady. “You – you’re here.”

“Of course I am, my dear,” he mutters. “Let’s get you out of here before they come back, and we can address those wounds.”

Crowley nods silently, letting Aziraphale put an arm around his shoulders after he picks the sword up. He does the same to Aziraphale, getting the support he needs to walk as Aziraphale brandishes the sword threateningly in front of him to get through the demons and back to Earth.


	7. Isolation

In hindsight, going north was a bad idea.

Crowley hated winter. He might be a demon who’s survived the fiery depths of Hell, but winter was beyond his control. It’s probably because of his cold-blooded snake form. Any self-respecting snake would go into hibernation when it gets this cold. Well, most self-respecting snakes aren’t demons either. Either way, whenever the weather changed over and grew colder, Crowley layered himself in as many jackets and scarves as he could fit.

The layers don’t do anything when he’s stuck in the middle of a snow storm though. Layers upon layers of frozen water falling from the sky, obscuring his view, making the ground slippery, and only making the cold worse for him. He hugs his arms around himself tightly, shivering violently. Aziraphale wasn’t expecting to see him for a while, so he couldn’t count on help. He told Aziraphale he was going to be gone for a few weeks, but now the cold is prohibiting his mind from remembering why he’s here in the first place, too focused on trying to keep him going to find shelter.

The wind tosses Crowley to and fro, his lanky frame lending well to their twisted game of catch. It’s thrown his sense of direction off, and his footsteps fade too quickly for him to keep track. For all he knows, he might have been walking around in circles this whole time. Then the wind works together with the slippery snow underfoot, pushing him over and burying him quickly. His body locks up then, isolated in the cold, and time changes suddenly – he can no longer tell if it’s been minutes, hours, or even days in his snowy tomb. The last thing he thinks before the cold finally makes him unconscious is how this discorporation is going to be one hell of an annoying explanation.

When he finally does come to, it’s not in the rotting return room in Hell that he thought it would be. It’s too soft for one. It feels like he fell asleep on a sheep, which he has definitely not done once or twice before as a snake. The next is the smell. Instead of the brimstone and mold that fills the nose and lingers for weeks after, it smells of tea, and biscuits, and – old books.

He sits up quickly as his eyes fly open, but the sudden rush causes his head to explode, so he falls back with a groan.

“Oh, dear, you’re finally awake!” Aziraphale hurries to his side, setting a tray of tea next to the bed before gently helping Crowley sit up, positioning the pillows in the small of his back instead.

“Angel? ‘M…” he trails off as the sound of his voice hits him, sounding foreign. He glances at his arms, trying to see if he is still in the same body.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Aziraphale sighs. “You’ve got a cold.”

“‘M a demon. Can… Can’t…” He’s cut off by his own sneeze.

“Honestly, what were you thinking, going out there in the cold! I don’t know how long you were out there before I found you, but you were on the brink of discorporation! I was afraid the blankets weren’t going to be enough.”

Crowley takes the mug of tea Aziraphale hands him and mutters incoherently. “‘M sorry.”

Aziraphale shakes his head before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to Crowley’s hairline. “It’s fine, dear. Just be more careful in the future. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Crowley nods, already feeling drowsy again as he drains the cup of tea. Aziraphale squeezes his hand as he takes the mug back. 

“Get some rest. You need it.”

He nods again without protesting, sliding back down and burying under the covers with a chill. Right before he slips under the heaviness of sleep again, he feels the bed dip behind him, and warm arms wrap around him. He smiles as sleep finally overtakes him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt/comfort? Check. Whump? Ehh not so much. I don't know what it is about these two idiots but they hate my attempts at writing whump when I'm supposed to. I will try harder next time.


	8. Stab Wounds

Crowley will be the last one to admit that he has a soft spot. He’s a demon, after all. He isn’t supposed to have a soft spot. But if you ask anyone that knows him, seeing anyone in danger causes him to rush to their aid. Certain people call it his Aziraphale response, but never in front of him. 

When he spared a glance down an alley as he was walking to the bookshop and saw the young woman being mugged, he barely thought before he was rushing to her aid. With the mugger’s back to him, he wasn’t counting on the knife. 

He grabs the man from behind, temporarily debilitating him as he shouts, “Get out of here!”

As the woman runs away, the man gets over Crowley’s surprise, struggling against his grip.

“You bastard! You’ll regret stepping in!” He throws Crowley off of him, the knife in his hand landing in Crowley’s side as he stumbles backward. Crowley clutches the handle still sticking out of him, a sneer forming on his face and dark energy flowing off of him in waves.

He grows to his full height, sunglasses slipping to reveal yellow serpentine eyes and a thin, forked tongue flicking out into the night air. The man looked terrified – but Crowley wasn’t done with him yet. “I ssee your ssoul hasss been condemned to Hell already. You won’t like it down there, I guarantee. Leave now, and don’t come back, lesst you face your demisse ssooner.”

The man nods furiously, and with one last hiss from Crowley, he runs off, tripping over everything he possibly can. Only once he’s out of sight does Crowley settle down, still holding the knife in his side. The bookshop’s not that far away, and he doesn’t want someone to see him dealing with it and call an ambulance. The last time Crowley got caught up with an ambulance was not a pleasant one. A quick snap gives him a bag to hide the knife behind, and he leaves the alley with a limp, walking as quickly as he can.

Of course, fate had to be against him today. What luck would it be that the woman happened to run down the block, right into Aziraphale, who must have been outside waiting for Crowley?

“Oh, you’re the man who rescued me!” she says when she spots him. Aziraphale looks up at him too, and, upon recognizing Crowley, smiles knowingly. Crowley sneers back at him. “Thank you so much. I need this money to pay off my debt; I don’t know what would have happened to me if you didn’t step in."

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is to me! Please, there must be some way to repay you.”

“Just – stay safe,” he says, betraying his cool demeanor. He then raises an eyebrow in Aziraphale’s direction, who nods slyly. The air shimmers for a brief second as Aziraphale blesses her.

“I’ll try! Thank you again. I should get going; I need to turn this in!” She rushes off, leaving the two of them to watch after her. Crowley sways in place, catching Aziraphale’s attention.

“Dear, what are you doing?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Suppose someone was stabbed, but they kept the knife in the wound. They wouldn’t pass out, would they?”

“I’m not really sure; I’m no medical expert. I know keeping the instrument they were stabbed with in the body keeps the blood from escaping quickly, but if it was deep enough –” he stops as Crowley starts to fall, catching him in his arms. “_Oh my heavens you’ve been stabbed!_”

“Wonderful observation,” Crowley mutters, half-walking half-being-dragged inside the bookshop.

“Well, I did think that bag was suspicious, but – Crowley! You were stabbed!”

“Mmhmm. We’ve established that.”

“This isn’t something to joke about!” The doors lock behind them, and Aziraphale helps Crowley through the shop to spread out over the sofa. “I’ll make it quick – healing a stab wound shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Angel? ‘M sleepy.”

“No, dear, you aren’t allowed to sleep. Just – give me a moment, please!”

“‘M real sleepy.”

“Please, dear, wait a few more seconds! You can sleep once I’ve healed the wound, okay?”

Crowley mutters incoherently, his eyelids drooping further and further. Quickly racking his brain to think of a way to get Crowley to stay awake, Aziraphale does the one thing he can think of – he surges up and kisses him.

As always, Crowley’s eyes shoot open in shock. It happens every time he doesn’t expect a kiss from Aziraphale, suddenly remembering they are allowed to do that now. As he presses into the kiss, Aziraphale reaches up and quickly pulls the knife out.

Crowley breaks the kiss as his eyebrows furrow in pain, yelling, “Ow! Bloody hell, angel, some warning would be nice!”

“I have to heal this before you try to fall asleep again.” Gently running a hand over Crowley’s side, he makes sure there isn’t a trace of the knife anymore. “There. Now you can go to sleep, if you still wish.”

“Mmm,” he says, thinking it over. “It’s been a long day. I think I might.” He turns over on his side and uses his hands as a pillow.

“I’ll wake you up for dinner. Goodnight, dear.”

“G’night, angel.”


	9. Shackled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look at me, finally writing something not post-canon!

Salem, Massachusetts, 1692

It was cold and dark in the cell. The small, barred window on the other side of the room prohibited any moonlight from helping to make the miserable space just a touch better. It let in everything else, though. The cold seeping into his bones. The dew settling on the stone walls, making them slick and lowering the temperature of the room even more. It let in the bugs as well, but they knew better than to bother him.

Aziraphale shifts in his sitting position against the wall, his wrists scraping against the cold iron shackles above his head, keeping him chained to the wall. Time was running out, ever so slowly in its path against him. He knew, come dawn, there was no escape. He’d be done for. 

A miracle could easily get him out of the shackles, but he’d need a lot more to get out of the seemingly restless village. And miracles were what got him into this mess in the first place.

The soft yellow glow suddenly peaking through the barred door and the rattle of keys draws his attention. It’s too late.

A minister steps inside the cell – at least, he assumes the man is a minister from the outfit he’s wearing. Aziraphale doesn’t understand why humans insist on separating the ministers by their clothing. He doesn’t understand why they separate the ministers at all, when most of them are just as bad as the others. If not worse.

He comes to a stop in front of Aziraphale, looking down upon him and gripping his bible, relying on it as a shield. “Are you ready to repent?”

Aziraphale barely resists rolling his eyes. As if repenting would even work if Hell claimed your soul. “I don’t need to repent. I’m honestly not a witch!” He’s probably the furthest thing from a witch.

“Denial won’t help you. If you repent for your sins now, God will show pity on you, and you will be able to enter the pearly gates of Heaven.”

Aziraphale has seen the gates personally. They aren’t that grand. “What’s the point of repenting if you’re going to kill those you think are witches either way?”

The priest sighs, having the audacity to look sad. “If that is how you feel, then there is nothing else I can do.” He turns to leave, but the doors stay open behind him. Filtered chatter comes to him from a low conversation outside. “He’s still denying. Mmhmm. The pyre’s almost ready.”

He shakes his head. He traveled all the way over here to perform a few miracles at Heaven’s request. Because he helped heal that boy in this ‘New World,’ everyone assumed he was a witch. Normal witches can’t even do that. Their ‘magic’ is herbs and other plants that help make people feel better. Everyone here is just stirred up in a riot, pushing blame and getting rid of those they don’t like. Hopefully Heaven understands this when he has to fill out the paperwork for a new body.

Another man comes in; a large hat resting upon his head and the keys dangling loosely in his hand. The witchfinder. He unlocks the manacles on the wall, and he grips Aziraphale’s arm tightly, wrenching it up. “Get up.”

Aziraphale has no choice in the matter, following the man as he drags him out. In the middle of the village green stands the stake, and the pile of brush to burn surrounding it. The whole village seems to have shown, taunting and jeering as Aziraphale is led to his doom. He is forced against the pillar; his wrists tied painfully tight behind him. The village watches as the witchfinder steps back, and they light the very end of the brush around him in the soft morning light. The flame overtakes the dry twigs quickly, looming closer and closer to Aziraphale as the village cheers. He turns his head as the heat of the flame dances across his skin, bracing himself for the feel of the flame licking up his legs. It doesn’t come, however, as the cheering quickly turns to shrill screams.

“Demon!”

“Run!”

He opens his eyes to see a tall figure stalking through the flames towards him as the village turns to chaos. He’s alarmed for a few brief seconds until the figure gets close enough that he can see the sunglasses slipping to reveal his yellow, serpentine eyes. “Crowley?”

“Damn angel,” he mutters, his large, black wings blocking the fire from spreading to him. “I leave for how long, and you have to go and almost discorporate yourself?” He unties Aziraphale quickly, glancing back at the crowd. “Now might be a good time to pull your wings out; we can fly away before they regain their composure.”

Aziraphale nods, white feathers quickly unfurling before they jump into the sky, quickly winging their way away from the village. 

“What were you doing in America, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, the rushing wind proving no difficulty for talking with a quick miracle.

“I was down south, in a region they’re thinking of naming Georgia. Hell wants souls and thought the New World would make for easy pickings. Gonna tell them it’s not worth it. The Americans can damn themselves to Hell well enough. I’m not losing another fiddle contest.”

Aziraphale furrows his brow, deciding not to ask. “I suppose I should thank you for the rescue, then; for even being able to find me, too.”

“Don’t mention it. As long as it doesn’t become a habit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Crowley will come to find out, this is only the first of many times he'll have to save Aziraphale.


	10. Unconscious

Freezing time was dangerous, no matter who did it.

Sandalphon did it once, to make sure the people in Sodom and Gomorrah didn’t have a chance to escape. Ligur had done it in Russia; they still talk about that massacre. Even God had frozen time once, thinking no one noticed when she froze the rainstorm from coming to let a certain angel and demon talk a little longer than necessary.

Crowley hadn’t only done it once. He had done it twice. Aziraphale knew the risks for the third time, but didn’t stop him in time.

He was showing off at the French Revolution. He didn’t need to freeze time to save Aziraphale there. But yet, Aziraphale could see its effects. His hips seemed to sway more than usual. He seemed grateful for the reprieve of sitting at the crepe restaurant. He was tired and probably slept a few years after dropping Aziraphale off at what was soon to be the bookshop. When he saw him next at the grand opening, he seemed back to normal.

It happened again at Armageddon. What else can you do to stop Satan? Holding off that much power, for that long, just so they could talk to Adam in peace to help get rid of Satan – needless to say, he wasn’t surprised when, on the bus ride home, Aziraphale gently took his hand in his and soon after Crowley slumped over onto his shoulder, falling asleep.

Freezing time again within the same century definitely wasn’t his brightest idea. He was only sleeping at night, so there was no way he had recovered that energy anyway. But he didn’t hesitate. Not when Aziraphale’s life was on the line.

It was a rogue angel. Probably upset that Aziraphale would leave them in favor of a demon. They had caught the pair unawares, and nearly decapitated Aziraphale. Crowley panicked, freezing time with the sword mere inches from Aziraphale’s neck. He had barely gotten out of the way and stolen the frozen angel’s sword before Crowley keeled over, hitting the sidewalk and smashing his sunglasses as he lost consciousness.

Aziraphale quickly dispatched the angel, but the humans had already noticed Crowley. They started to crowd around him, phones out to call those humans that love to help each other. But there was no helping this, not even by him.

He managed a quick miracle to make the crowd suddenly disinterested, and another so the humans they called didn’t bother wasting their time when they couldn’t provide any help. Now, without anyone out of the way, he kneels next to Crowley’s unconscious form, gently pulling his face away from the glass shards and pushing his hair out of his face.

“Why’d you have to do that,” Aziraphale mutters, fingers trailing down Crowley’s cheek. 

He wipes his own cheeks quickly, unwanted tears escaping down his face. He gently moves his hands under Crowley, lifting him with ease and cradling him against his chest. Another small bubble miracle lets the crowds of London ignore him as he walks back, as he doesn’t know how to drive. The Bentley will have to stay until Crowley can pick it up.

It lasts until the bookshop, when Aziraphale was finally starting to feel weary from spending all of that energy. He’s careful not to hit Crowley’s long, lanky form on any of the shelves as he weaves through the book stacks, taking him to the flat up above and carefully laying him out on the bed. Once he’s pulled the sheets over him, Aziraphale leans over and kisses his forehead. “Sleep well, my dear.” He settles in the plush chair next to the bed, pulling over a book. “I’ll be here when you wake.”


	11. Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another mid-canon? What?

London, 1862

It was quiet in the bookshop. Unnervingly quiet. Anyone who has ever been in a bookshop knows they are never really silent. There’s the shifting of fabric as people browse the aisles, hushed conversations as they search for something new with a friend, and the usual ringing of coins as people pay for their findings, eager to bring their new prize home. 

There was none of this, though — no excited conversations. No rustling pages. No people, even. Or so it seemed. The only noise at all in the shop was coming from the backroom.

_Click. Click. Click. _A pause. _Click. Click._

Aziraphale sits alone in his chair, a pile of black yarn in his lap and two sharp knitting needles in his hands. 

_Click. Click. Click._

He reviews his stitching every few seconds, making sure the row is perfect. He doesn’t need another mistake on his consciousness today.

_Click. Click._

_“Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternizing?”_

_Click. Click. Click._

_“I don’t need you.”_

_“And the feeling is mutual! Obviously.”_

_Click._

_“It would destroy you! I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!”_

Aziraphale’s hand slips, the needles scraping against each other in a long slide and the stitch turns out lopsided. A sigh breaks the silence, knitting needles carefully extracting the bad stitch so it can be redone.

_Click. Click._

The conversation replays in his head, over and over, sometimes overlapping before it can finish. 

_Click._

_“We may have both started out as angels, but you are Fallen.”_

_Click._

Why would he even say that? Why would he point out Crowley’s hurts like that? Crowley’s more than just a demon. A normal demon wouldn’t have proposed the arrangement. A normal demon wouldn’t have talked to Aziraphale over and over and over, century after century. 

_Click. Click._

All he wanted was Holy Water. There was no way for Heaven to even know. Holy Water is Holy Water – as long as it is adequately blessed, it doesn’t contain any markings of who made it. He could have stolen it, for all Heaven would know. So why did he say no?

_Click. Click. Click._

Crowley was nice about it. Calm, even. Talking about ears on ducks or something. Crowley wouldn’t leave him behind like that.

_“That’s not what I want it for. Just – insurance.”_

_Click._

Insurance. For what? A demon handling Holy Water was dangerous. Just a single misplaced drop could melt them out of existence. Why would Crowley want that?

_“For if it all goes pear-shaped.”_

_“I like pears.”_

_Click. Click._

‘I like pears.’ Why the Hell would he say that? Crowley clearly said why he wanted the Holy Water, and he ignored it to say he liked pears. Then he forgot about it by the time he read the note. Suicide? Why did he think Crowley would use it for suicide?

_Click. Cli–_

He pauses mid stitch, the sudden realization hitting him. He didn’t think Crowley would use it for suicide. He was just afraid. Of course Crowley would take the proper precautions, but to hand something that dangerous over to the person he lo–

_-ck. Click. Click._

He pauses again, looking over the dark material pooling in his lap. It really wasn’t his style, usually opting for light creams and browns. And the sweater was much too small to fit him. He runs gentle fingers over the surface of his stitches, the more recent stitches suddenly becoming wet. He lets himself sit like this for a few minutes before carefully resting the knitting needles to the side, wiping his face and shifting slightly in his chair.

He picks the needles up, reviews his current row, and continues knitting.

_Click. Click. Click._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, there's that whump I've been looking for


	12. "Don't Move"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, lookie here. I finally made it to the Fall. Crowley is Raphael if anyone doesn't like that headcanon, but honestly it's just a name for this chapter

“Don’t move!” Raphael yells, holding his hands out to warn the angel. The clouds underfoot were dangerously fragile – one wrong step, and they could fall through. It was happening all over Heaven, all because of this stupid revolt his friends started. He doesn’t know where they’re going. He doesn’t want to find out.

The angel actually listens, freezing with his arms outstretched to the side to steady himself. His blue eyes are full of panic, and Raphael has to take a few seconds to calm himself down just from seeing it. “You’re Aziraphale, right?”

He nods.

“Everything’s going to be alright. I promise. No harm will come to you.”

He nods again, glancing around and watching some more of the unlucky angels fall through. His eyes open impossibly further.

Raphael looks around too, to see what he’s looking at. It’s like thin ice, the clouds unable to support the angel's weight and dropping them into the unknown, only for it to reform a few seconds later.

“Hey, just look at me!” he says, trying to reach out to Aziraphale. “Just look at me. It’s all normal here, see?” He stomps on the cloud underfoot to show it is still solid. Aziraphale focuses on him, watching every small movement he makes.

“I don’t want to Fall,” he says, small tears escaping his eyes.

“And you won’t. I swear it.” He holds his hands out towards him. “Slowly walk over this way, okay? Once you can reach my hands, you’ll be safe.”

Aziraphale nods, settling his nerves before taking a half step forward, easing his weight onto it. 

“Yes, that’s it. A few more of those and you’ll be safe.”

He nearly loses his balance on the next step, and Raphael’s wings puff out, ready to dart over and catch him if necessary, but he steadies himself before he falls.

“Okay, just – stay calm. You’ll be alright.”

A few more steps and their outstretched hands are inches away from each other; inches away from them both being safe. 

“One more. One more, and I can reach you!”

Before Aziraphale can take the last step, he starts to sway, and Raphael can see the clouds falling apart around him.

“No!” Raphael says, lurching forward and grabbing Aziraphale’s hand, throwing him to safety as the clouds underfoot give way, and Raphael Falls.

As he looks up at the hole in the clouds, he sees Aziraphale look down in horror as his rescuer plummets to his doom. If it was to save those eyes, it was worth it.


	13. Adrenaline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if something is wrong in this chapter, I wrote this last night and this morning with a very distracting headache. Hope it's still good though!

His heartbeat grows faster. Adrenaline is something new, something only his human body gives him. But damn, it is _thrilling._

Crawly has never felt such a feeling before. His blood pumping faster through his body, giving his muscles the extra energy they need. The ability to do incredible feats without needing his demonic power.

He doesn’t know why he has this feeling. Maybe it’s the time constraint, trying to rescue as many children as he can. Maybe it’s defying orders. _Stay out of it, Crawly, _Beelzebub had said. Maybe it’s something else entirely, something he can’t even comprehend. 

When his heart finally starts to slow, putting the kids to sleep in his secret compartment in the ark, the feeling ebbs away, leaving him emptier than when Her Grace was ungracefully ripped from his soul. He wants to feel it again.

~~~

The mischievous glint in Aziraphale’s eye makes Crowley’s heartbeat even faster.

He had barely managed to get to the cell in time before they were going to drag Aziraphale out into the square, putting him in that machine that’s brought so many others to their bloody end. The adrenaline resurfaced as he searched for the right cell, and now, it seems Aziraphale planned it.

If Aziraphale planned this one, what’s to say he wouldn’t plan more? Put himself in danger and expect Crowley to come and rescue him. Not that it was ever a real danger, as he could get a new body, but the thrill of trying to get there in time…

Crowley found a new source of adrenaline.

~~~

It happened again. This time, at least, he knows Aziraphale couldn’t have planned it.

Two angels showing up to the bookshop opening, telling him that he was going to be replaced. The sheer horror on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley showed up in the doorway was enough to say everything was unplanned. Still, the thrill of opposing two archangels, of anyone they could have been, and coming up with a hurried plan to keep Aziraphale on Earth – well, he wasn’t kidding when he said Michael was a wanker. He couldn’t let Aziraphale leave, for more reasons than one.

It was a big risk. A lot could have gone wrong. He could have timed it wrong, and Gabriel didn’t actually hear his fake conversation. Gabriel could have decided to smite him right then and there instead of listening to him. The archangels might have found out about the arrangement, or at least enough to blow their cover. A lot was resting on his shoulders, but he still did it anyway and was rewarded with his wonderful adrenaline.

When he goes back to the bookshop later, for the actual grand opening, he acts as nothing happened. He gives Aziraphale his flowers and chocolates, and he even meets a few humans. Not many show, because Aziraphale didn’t really advertise it. 

After he leaves, though, a new feeling arises from the pit of his stomach. Worry.

~~~

The worry latches onto his stomach and won’t let go, eating away at him from the inside out, like a tapeworm. What if Heaven or Hell did find out? What would happen to the two of them? It is extremely dangerous for him to be flaunting around as an angel, and similarly for Aziraphale flitting around as a demon. He was the one to propose the arrangement, and he sure as hell wasn’t planning on backing out on it any time soon. 

This time, the thought of the risk doesn’t thrill him. It just makes the worry worse. So he sits down to think about what he could do to prevent it. And he thinks. And he thinks. And he thinks. And finally, he comes to an answer.

But Aziraphale won’t give it to him.

The one thing that will help ease his worry against Hell, and Aziraphale refuses to give him the Holy Water. The whole point of it is if they find out! If Aziraphale is really that worried, Crowley was more than willing to find some hellfire to give him in return. But Aziraphale leaves before he can even ask that.

The worry gets worse.

~~~

The only thing that seems to be able to overcome the worry is more adrenaline. And what’s more adrenaline-inducing than running into a church when you’re a demon? Well – it’s either the adrenaline or the pain in his feet distracting him from his worry.

Of course, Aziraphale had to go and need rescuing again. Thinking he could play the role of the spy, only to be double-crossed. The Nazis are an entirely human invention, so Crowley can’t even imagine how awful they are. Leaving it up to his not so secret message to Aziraphale to make sure they stay safe increases it ever so slightly. And saving Aziraphale’s books is just the icing on the cake, in his opinion. The drive home is less appealing. By the time he drops Aziraphale off at the bookstore, safe once more, the adrenaline has worn off, so he declines the invitation to stay. Once the shop doors close, he’s left with only that gnawing feeling of worry and sore feet.

~~~

His worry leads him to plan a heist. If Aziraphale won’t give him the Holy Water, he’d find a way to get it. It seemed the only thing that would ease the feeling. He obviously couldn’t do it, so he hired people to get it for him. 

Of course, the last thing he was expecting was for Aziraphale to show up after his latest meeting and give it to him willingly. Seems strange, after everything that had happened, for him to appear. Maybe he finally had a change of heart. Maybe something else caused it.

Whatever was the reason, Crowley doesn’t get a chance to find out. Aziraphale doesn’t want anything in return, not even a lift home, claiming Crowley goes too fast for him. When the car door closes, and Crowley is left staring at the little tartan thermos in his hand, the worry is only replaced with a new, fluttering feeling. Love.

~~~

The years leading up to Armageddon are the most adrenaline-inducing of all. Working together with Aziraphale to raise the antichrist so he won’t be bad. Finding out mere days before Armageddon that it was actually the wrong boy and starting a chase to find him adds on to that thrill. 

But Crowley doesn’t know why he wants to save the world.

It is obviously, 100%, Aziraphale. They won't be able to be together anymore if the world ends. But, he now has two conflicting emotions around Aziraphale. Aziraphale has always given him that adrenaline rush he’s searched for whenever he puts himself in danger. But why would he want the person he loves to be in danger? 

His battling emotions ultimately lead to Aziraphale’s untimely death. He didn’t make it to the bookshop fast enough. The adrenaline he feels as he runs into the bookshop disappears quickly, becoming numb to everything over the shattering of his heart. He thought alcohol could mend it, but it only makes his feelings worse.

Then Aziraphale is there. Not dead. And the flood of adrenaline comes rushing back as he literally drives through fire for Aziraphale. Acting cool at the airbase, helping stop Satan once he showed up because Adam was disobeying orders – it all felt right. But he is even more excited when, on the bus home, Aziraphale intertwines their fingers and lets him fall asleep on his shoulder.

With one final act of defiance against Heaven while in Aziraphale’s body, Crowley finally loses the adrenaline rush of the past couple of years. As he and Aziraphale discreetly hold hands in the Ritz, he can’t help but worry about how dangerous his want for adrenaline was growing. What if Aziraphale puts himself in trouble again? What would happen if he couldn't save him in time?


	14. Tear-Stained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I can't leave the Fall alone. And I know of another prompt in the future that's gonna be close to it too. So here's some directly post-Fall whump!

Aziraphale kneels on the ground, soft clouds unwavering beneath his weight, unlike all those who suddenly plummeted to their destruction. To think them all dead was one thing – the angels who did fall could be properly mourned, given time. But then they found out they didn’t fall – they had Fallen. Cursed to turn into demons, who will be the archenemy of the angels soon enough.

It was a fate worse than death, in Aziraphale’s opinion.

But he couldn’t ask why. He couldn’t bring himself to voice his questions, afraid he’ll be Falling next if he does. So he sits and lets tears stain his cheeks as he stares at the last place he had seen that shock of red hair. He won’t voice his questions. But he still lets them bounce around in his head.

First, he questions God.

_Why would you let this happen? Why make them if they were only going to lead to destruction? Why give them this fate worse than death? Why feed into their anger and make them demons? Why play along with them if they were only ever meant to Fall?_

When he’s exhausted all of his questions in that regard, his thoughts turn to question someone else.

_Why did you Fall? Was it really that bad here? Were you just trying to fit in? Did you have to question everything we know? Did you have to force this fate upon yourself? Were you unhappy up here? Did you even mean to Fall? Did – Did I do something wrong? Were you upset with me? Was there a way I could have helped before I lost you? Is there any way I can get you back?_

He sits there until his tears run dry, the last angel left on the vacant battlefield. Everyone else had moved on already but had allowed him his space. He has a feeling they expect him to move on after this; to forget about everything relating to the demons. He wouldn’t forget. He wouldn’t let himself forget. But he can’t disobey. Even if disobeying might reunite the two of them. He races through his thoughts, catching all the elusive questions and locking them up tightly in the back of his mind. He stands then, wiping his tear-stained cheeks with the back of his hands. One ringing question escaped his plunder, and, as he sets off determined for the archangels, wanting to be placed on Earth, it speaks loudly enough for all his other questions. _Why?_


	15. Scars

Angels and demons don’t have many scars. Why would they, when a simple hand wave heals all of their wounds?

Aziraphale has a few if you look close enough. They’re all small, little cuts that he’s forgotten to heal. Scrapes from rescuing humans, or papercuts from going through his books – it’s unavoidable to get a few when you live on Earth in the same body for 6000 years. Crowley has a few as well – namely, the scars on his back from the Fall. Their wings didn’t just turn black; they were burned that way, so it left more than one lasting impression. Other than that, he has a few scrapes he never healed from various tempting and minor inconveniences, and his feet have never quite returned to their proper color since the church in World War II.

Not all scars have to be physical, though. Some scars are emotional. 

They both hide them to the best of their abilities, but scars never leave. Sometimes, the pain returns, ghosting across the surface. Aziraphale still feels the mental abuse from his fellow angels – the ones he thought could never do wrong. Telling him he was wrong for liking human things, like food and books. Making him feel incompetent. Sending him rude notes, saying he’s used too many miracles when that’s his job. Ignoring his protests when they wanted to promote him back to Heaven. Crowley had a few, too. He’ll never quite be over losing his connection to God when he Fell. It hurt in more ways than one. He also still hurts from Aziraphale’s rejection – thinking he’s not good enough, over and over and over. When he asked for Holy Water at the pond. When Aziraphale did finally hand it over. When he tried, again, and again, and again, to get Aziraphale to run away with him, to stay on his side.

Even now, with each other by their side, they question these things. Crowley encourages Aziraphale to get the extra slice of cake; to buy that new book. There’s nothing wrong with having more if he wants it. Aziraphale has to go through bouts where Crowley gets clingy; afraid Aziraphale will leave him. So he sits there and lets Crowley hug him tightly, running gentle fingers through his hair and whispering his love, reminding him he will never leave.

They both have scars. But they get through it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this chapter seems short, I finally finished a soulmate fic that just so happens to be about scars, so I didn't have much of an idea for today. [(it's here if you want to read it)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044543)


	16. Pinned Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was bound to happen eventually. I love the idea of Crowley and Aziraphale in Alexandria, so have some fun whump as the city burns!

The flames tower into the night sky, spewing ashes on every living thing within a few miles. The city is burning. Alexandria is done for.

Ash-coated people run through the few streets still remaining – they hold their wounds, or their loved ones, or their hands, closed in prayer. Crowley wishes he could stop to say something, to tell them no god is going to answer them. It doesn’t matter who they pray to. This was predetermined.

But he can’t stop. He _can’t._ As he rushes back into the city, ignoring the cries of the few survivors left telling him to turn back, there’s only one thing he can think of. The one important person missing from his headcount outside the city. 

Aziraphale.

The starving fire races across the roofs of the houses, but it parts enough for Crowley to see the ships floating out in the harbor, untouched by the flame’s greedy fingers. He can practically see the flickering orange and yellow glinting in Caesar’s eyes, his psychotic grin completing the tyrant’s joy in seeing the city burn.

The buildings close in again, suffocating smoke filling all of Crowley’s senses, but still, he pushes forward until the towering building looms before him. The smell of burning ink and paper fills his nose as he rushes in, immediately dodging to the right as part of the wall collapses. Aziraphale must be here somewhere. He loved the library and spent most of his time reading through the various scrolls available, even offering his help with writing out some of them.

“Angel!” He calls out, the building creaking and groaning and threatening to collapse entirely any second. He was running out of time. 

His ears catch the sound of coughing over the roaring fire, so he rushes to the source, finding Aziraphale struggling to get out from under a flaming ceiling beam pinning him to the ground. He coughs again as Crowley rushes to his side, the flames licking harmlessly against Crowley’s skin as he lifts the beam off of Aziraphale. He crawls out, collapsing on the ground in another coughing fit as Crowley sets the beam down.

“You’re burned,” Crowley says, fretting over him as he crouches down.

Aziraphale waves him away as he attempts to sit, saying, “I’m fine, I’m–” he falls into another coughing fit, doubling over.

A loud crash calls their attention as part of the roof falls nearby, and Crowley decides he can’t wait any longer. He unfurls his wings, spreading them wide as he picks Aziraphale up into his arms, holding him tight as he takes off into the sky.

“Crow-ley–” Aziraphale tries, a smaller cough taking over again.

“Shh,” Crowley comforts. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take care of you.”

Somewhere as they fly into the night, Aziraphale falls asleep, warm in the safety of Crowley’s arms.


	17. "Stay With Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the warnings today, my lovely readers! My inner nerd came out and, well, it didn't end well. CW for a bit of blood/gore and character discorporation - meaning said character is temporarily dead and will eventually come back, but he doesn't come back here

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to be here.

Crowley was tasked with helping Troy defend themselves against the greeks. The king, Paris, was as greedy as they come, stealing Helen from her husband to have her for himself. The man was destined for Hell. And one doesn’t disobey direct orders from Beelzebub. They seemed pretty capable of defending themselves, as even Achilles couldn’t get through the wall, so he spends most of his days being a minor inconvenience for everyone or getting drunk. 

He didn’t know about the horse until it was too late. He stumbled out of the bar to see it standing tall in the distance, silhouetted by the moonlight. The ringing of metal against metal and the screams of the innocent reached him quickly, and he blessed under his breath as he sobered up. Starting to run towards the noise and the horse, he was stopped by a woman cradling her infant in her arms, yelling, “Achilles and the greeks are here. We’re doomed!”

“Hey, calm down,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Run out of the city. Don’t look back. You’ll be safe.” There was power to his words, and she quickly calmed down and nodded.

Once she ran off again, Crowley changed course, deciding to go to the palace instead of the distant sound of battle. Now that the greeks were inside the walls, and they had the upper hand with their surprise attack, the city was as good as lost. But he still had to try, so when he fills out the paperwork later, he can say there was an attempt made to win.

“How did they get in?” He heard a sleep-disgruntled Paris ask his guards.

“We believe they were hiding in the horse, your majesty.”

If they were going to go, they may as well go with style. “I know how to kill Achilles,” Crowley said, appearing from behind a pillar. The guards immediately drew their swords, but with a quick gesture, the swords were reduced to no more than a toothpick in their fists.

“You’re a god,” Paris breathed, immediately bowing his head in respect.

“I’m not a – you know what? We don’t have time to argue. If you want a chance at winning this fight, you must kill Achilles.”

“My men have all tried and failed. They said they could never harm the man. How would I ever be able to fight a beast like that and prevail?”

“Just aim for the heels,” Crowley said like it was obvious. “No one ever protects their feet. Especially if they’re too focused on the swords aiming for their chest and face.”

“Catch him while he’s distracted,” Paris nodded, connecting the dots. “But I’m still afraid I would never get close enough to do that. He’d notice me coming if I was to swing a sword at him, and trying to aim low enough to strike his heel…”

Crowley pressed his lips together and pushed air into his cheeks as he thought. “You have a bow and arrow?”

“Of course! This is a palace; we have all matters of weapons at our disposal!” He sounded offended that it was a question that needed to be asked.

“Right. Shoot him from a distance while he’s engaged in combat then.”

Paris considered. “To shoot with that accuracy, though, from far enough that he wouldn’t notice, seems a feat beyond man.”

“Then I’ll help you!” he said exasperatedly. “Just get a bow and arrow, before it’s too late!”

The guards hurried off after the weapon as Paris thanked Crowley. “If we survive this, I will burn a whole meal in sacrifice to you, Apollo.”

“Apol–” Crowley grabbed his forehead in frustration. Once this was over, he was going to hurt whatever demon thought it a good idea for there to be different religions that worshiped more than one god. 

“Right,” Paris said when his guards returned, slinging the quiver over his shoulder. “Protect the palace. I have a god to protect me.” He then motioned with his head for Crowley to follow him, leading him out to a balcony overlooking the streets now red with blood. The greeks were getting closer; it would be a matter of minutes before they could storm the palace.

“There,” Paris pointed, drawing Crowley’s attention to a smaller fight off to the side, where a greek stood swinging his sword with practiced ease, slaying all the soldiers who dared get close to him.

“Right.” 

Paris nocked the arrow, lining it up to the best of his abilities. “All is ready.”

“Just shoot the bloody arrow!”

The twang of the string echoed as the world seemed to slow down, Achilles suddenly looking up at them with all too familiar blue eyes. But it was too late. The arrow pierces his heel, and he falls over onto the ground, his helmet falling loose to reveal his bright blonde curls.

Paris cheered as Crowley looked on in horror, barely hesitating before he jumped over the edge of the balcony and rolled when he hit the ground to disperse his momentum.

Now, Crowley can barely hold back his tears, hovering over Aziraphale as the battle rages on around them. Gold blood stains the street around them, dripping from Aziraphale’s heel and the wound in his side from falling on a sword.

“Nonononono, stay with me, angel,” he cries, trying but failing to heal the wounds. It had taken a demonic intervention for the arrow to stay true – there was no healing it.

“Crow-ley,” he coughs, gold trickling from the corner of his mouth. “What –”

“I’m sorry,” he answers, the tears now falling. “I’m sorry, I’m – what were you thinking, fighting for the greeks? Of course you’d be the best fighter! Of course everyone would want to kill you! I’m–” he’s cut off as a sob racks his body, moving Aziraphale’s head to his lap. “Please,” he whispers. “Stay with me.”

“Crow-ley,” he manages again, shakily bringing his hand up and wiping the tears away, even though they are quickly replaced. “I forgive – you –” His hand falls limply back down to his side, and his head falls too.

“Aziraphale,” he whispers, guilt blooming in his chest. “Angel. Please.”

But it was too late.

Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s chest, hiding his sobs from the world, gripping his lifeless body tighter to hide his shaking.

Aziraphale would be back, eventually. He knew he hadn’t managed to hurt his angelic form, and merely discorporated him. But that was still on him. Aziraphale was still temporarily gone from earth, and who knew how long the paperwork would take for him to get another body.

Once the tears have run dry, and the greeks have started a fire to burn the city to the ground, Crowley weakly presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, closing Aziraphale’s eyes as he vows to do everything in his power to avoid Aziraphale discorporating again.


	18. Muffled Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was rough, so here's one with a softer ending <3

A shrill scream rings out in the air in the nearby forest, and Crowley’s heartbeat quickens. It sounds again, muffled this time, and he finds himself running to the source.

He always knew he could find the Them in Hogback Woods if it weren’t a school day or lunchtime. So he surprised them today by showing up to their not-so-secret den, and they roped him into playing a few rounds of hide-and-seek with them. Except, he was always the seeker. There was no reason for anyone to be screaming fearfully, however, and you never quite knew what some demons might do.

When he stumbles into the clearing the sound was coming from, he finds Adam soothing a shivering Wensleydale. “There was a spider,” Adam answers the unasked question. “Wensley has arachnophobia.”

Crowley nods in understanding, swallowing in an attempt to calm himself down. His hand starts to shake, and he grabs it quickly to keep the kids from worrying, but he’s not fast enough for Adam.

“Are you alright?”

His breathing starts to grow faster, a dull pain in his chest. “I – well–” He shakes his head as his legs give out under him, sinking to his knees in the dirt and leaves. It was just a spider. Everyone is okay. So why is the panic in his chest growing?

Adam leaves Wensley and slowly approaches Crowley. “Hey, just – breathe, okay?”

Crowley gasps for air. “Can’t. I – I can’t. I–” He buries his face in his hands as the trembles spread through his body. He distantly hears Adam say, “Does someone have a phone? Call Aziraphale, quickly!”

It was Hell. He knew what they did to people down there. He’s heard the screams of those poor souls being tortured – it sounded so close to Wensleydale’s scream. He didn’t blame the kid at all; it wasn’t his fault when he’s afraid of spiders. Hell could sneak up on them at any moment – Heaven too, for that matter. They could come at any time, anywhere, and without a trace. It was terrifying.

“Crowley!” he hears, cutting through his thoughts. The voice sounded awfully familiar and comforting. “Oh, my dear, just listen to my voice. You’re here, on earth, in the middle of Hogback Woods. You’re safe. There’s nothing here to hurt you.”

Crowley blinks, his surroundings suddenly coming into focus again. He lifts his head from his hands and slowly looks up at the wonderful view of Aziraphale kneeling in front of him, a soft smile on his face but worry in his eyes.

“That’s it, dear. Breathe, please. I’m right here.”

He inhales deeply, exhaling through his mouth and placing his palms down in the dirt. Aziraphale opens his arms invitingly, giving Crowley the option for a comforting touch. When he nods, they meet each other halfway, Aziraphale cradling Crowley on his lap as Crowley presses his head to Aziraphale’s chest, trying to match his breathing to calm himself down.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles as Aziraphale strokes his hair.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, dear. I’ll sit here with you as long as you need me to, and will come anytime after. Don’t you forget that.”


	19. Asphyxiation

The view might have been nice if Crawly wasn’t terrified. Falling for an eternity when you don’t know when or if you’ll reach the bottom tends to do that, though. The further he falls, the more things he loses.

He’s already lost his name. Whatever it had been before rings around in his head, unintelligible. Already replaced by something else. Ραφαήλ, whatever that was, is now Crawly. His halo shattered somewhere far above him, scattering in shards. His angelic markings left when he first started to fall.

Still, there’s one thing that rings around in his mind that he clings to, hoping he will never forget it. Aziraphale. The white-haired angel he had seen around a lot, always smiling, always helping out. The one he had never had the courage to talk to. The one who he’d run away from, whenever his blue eyes caught Crawly’s and that smile was directed to him. He may never see him again.

Smoke envelops him and fills his lungs; his mouth; and burns his eyes. The end must be near. He makes himself smaller, pulling in his legs and closing his eyes as he braces himself for impact, and whatever awaits after that. If anything even does.

He certainly wasn’t prepared to fall into a liquid – he couldn’t call it water, for water wouldn’t hurt this much. The initial shock causes his eyes to shoot open and a surprised inhale – both of which were mistakes. The liquid burns at his eyes and fills his lungs as the pain starts to settle throughout his being and into his very soul. It chokes him; burns him; changes him – the coding of his angelic form rewriting itself as he writhes around, trying to do anything. Scream. Cry. Breathe. Anything would be better than suffering by himself. A sharp pain forms along his back as even his wings begin to change, and the liquid finally takes him as it rips the grace of God from him, fading into unconsciousness.

When he awakes again, sprawled across rough, jagged stones, he can tell he’s no longer the same person. Ραφαήλ definitely wouldn’t fit him, not anymore. But Crawly doesn’t seem right either. Patches of his skin glimmer in the light of the fires burning around him, looking vaguely like scales. When he rubs a rough finger over them, he realizes that’s exactly what they are. A forked tongue wets his lips and brings back with it the overwhelming scent of brimstone. He cringes away at the sensation, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a small pool of the liquid that hadn’t yet caught on fire. As his yellow, serpentine eyes stare back at him, he remembers the one thought he had clung to. Aziraphale. He was still there, perfectly encased in his memory. He smiles despite his current situation before getting to his feet to try and find the other demons. 

They were completely empty – they had nothing left for them. But Crawly still had one thread of hope to hold onto. One thing that makes him different from the other demons. One thing that keeps him from turning completely. The thought of possibly seeing Aziraphale again keeps him going, and when Beezlebub eventually asks for someone to go up to earth and cause some trouble, he’s the first to volunteer. This might be his chance. And if it is, he wouldn’t let himself run again. It might be the only chance he ever gets to talk to the angel, and he isn’t going to lose it this time. 


	20. Trembling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of a continuation of the first chapter, but it should still make sense to read this one without that.

Crowley settles down on the couch in the back room, his hands still clenched tightly in his pockets. Aziraphale sets a cup of tea in front of him, but it remains untouched as Aziraphale settles into his chair with his own cup, resting a book open on his lap.

In the following silence, Crowley lets his eyes and mind wander, and as his eyes roam the bookshelves, still the same organized mess they had been before the shop burned, the shake starts to spread up his arms. He clenches his jaw and tenses his muscles to stop it, trying to ignore his feelings. After a few more minutes, he realizes he hasn’t heard Aziraphale turn the page of his book in a while. When he looks over, Aziraphale is staring up at him over the rim of his glasses.

“You haven’t touched your tea, dear.”

Crowley nods and looks over to the cup. He pulls his fist out of his jacket but pauses, staring at it and trying to will the shake away so he can pick the cup up. 

“Are you okay?”

“You were gone,” he whispers, and now that his jaw is unclenched, his arms start to tremble once more, on display now for Aziraphale. “You were gone, and the shop was on fire.”

The book is set to the side as Aziraphale stands, gently sitting on the couch next to Crowley. “Oh, my dear, I didn’t think about that. It must have been tragic outside, to see the flames burning through the windows.”

Crowley mutters incoherently, hugging his arms to his chest as the tremors continue to spread.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I ran in to search for you! “ He says much louder before shrinking back in on himself. “The – the shop was on fire, and you – you weren’t anywhere to be seen, heard, _felt–”_

Aziraphale looks shocked. “You ran into a burning building… for me?”

“Where did you think I got the book from?”

“I – I suppose I hadn’t thought of that.” He carefully wraps his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, pulling him over to sit on Aziraphale’s lap, comforting him as he trembles. “And now that everything looks almost the same… I suppose it’s strange to see it all like this now.”

Crowley nods, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck and taking deep breaths, focusing on the scent of old books and ink and the faint cinnamon that always defines him. Aziraphale is here, safe. Everything is back to normal. There’s no need to be so silly over this.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Aziraphale interrupts, softly kissing the top of his head. “It is okay to react like this. I’m glad you are, actually. It’s better than keeping it bottled up. You don’t need to be ashamed of your feelings.”

His shoulders relax slightly as he nods against Aziraphale’s skin, remembering that, as long as there is time in the world, Aziraphale will always be there for him, and, with Heaven and Hell out of the way, there is no need to worry anymore. Aziraphale kisses his head again and Crowley snuggles into him further, reminding himself that he’s right here, safe and sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, my lovely readers! You might have noticed the end chapter count changed. I'm going to have to cut the month early and stop here for the whump, as I've got a couple essays piling up for school, and it's homecoming week, so everything's going to get crazy. Thank you all for reading along this month, it means a lot!! I'll still be posting other fics too if you want to hit that nifty user subscription button to get a notification anytime I post anything, but it won't be nearly as often as this one had been. Thanks again!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over here on [tumblr](https://pearlll09.tumblr.com) if you wanna say hi!


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